Before He Fell
by HP-Forever-XX
Summary: A day that never ends for Aberforth Dumbledore, as he witnesses the death of his brother, Albus, in the style of the book 'Before I Fall' by Lauren Oliver
1. Before He Fell

_**Author's Note: **This was written for the Before I Fall Competition by MelodyPond77, level 1. My quote was "He says it dramatically, like he's doing a voice-over for a movie" though I changed 'movie' to 'play' to make it more appropriate (which Mel said I could do!) and my character was Aberforth Dumbledore_

* * *

**Last Day 1**

My muscles were weary as I clambered down the stairs that morning, my whole body aching. I was ageing, I knew so much, but I was too stubborn to allow magic to heal me in any way—to ease the pain. Ageing was a natural process, and I had vowed not to interfere with anything life-threatening. Not since... that dreaded day.

Ariana's face was every bit as beautiful as it was the day she died, now preserved only as that delicate painting, and as a memory in my heart. I wondered whether my delightful elder brother ever spared her a second thought—whether he ever spared _me_ a second thought as I hobbled around in that creaky old bar.

"Good morning, Ariana," I greeted the portrait in my gruff voice, the same routine every morning.

Ariana's image offered a polite smile, emphasising every gentle detail of her young face. Oh, how I longed to see that face as something other than paint on a canvas. No, it was because of her that I would suffer through the agonising pain of ageing. She had been denied life; magic could not cure death, and magic would not prevent me from death in the way it had condemned her. I detested the thing and wanted as little to do with it as possible. If magic had not been involved in my life, I would still have a little sister. I would still have an older brother, too, for he had turned his back on us in pursuit of knowledge. _For the greater good._ I scoffed.

I was surprised to find a customer already in the Hog's Head. Business had been uneventful recently, with only a few stragglers in the evening—weary travellers passing through, or men in hooded cloaks conducting illicit trades. What went on in my pub was a matter of secrecy. As long as they paid me, I left them alone to whatever private meetings they may be attending.

This fellow looked shifty, not in a suspicious kind of way, but an uncomfortable one, as though he was nervous. He wore a thick, black cloak—not unusual for travellers in my pub—with some kind of, what looked like an ink marking, trailing up his arm. I had seen such marks before, knowing they were associated with dark magic, but that was no concern of mine.

I had considered closing the pub that day; business was dull, and today was a day of grieving, of mourning the loss of my sister on that very day all those years ago. Despite his attire and sinister appearance, it was clear that man possessed more fear than I did. He would be obliging if I asked him to leave—telling him the pub was closed—and, if he refused, I knew I could overcome him, despite my age.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I grunted, perhaps a tad too impolite.

The stranger looked up in shock as I addressed him. "I'm just"—he hesitated—"waiting for a few... _acquaintances_."

So we were expecting more? Still, I was uncertain about having the Hog's Head open. It was not a day to be pleasant and social. Not for me, anyway. But could I really turn away the only proper business I'd had in weeks? "These... _acquaintances_," I repeated, drawing out the word just as he had, "how many am I to be expecting in my pub?"

The stranger looked even more uncomfortable, as though he expected me to demand what sort of business was going on there. I admit, I was now more than a little curious. "Ten, perhaps," he said cautiously.

Ten customers? I nodded in approval. Ah, well, Ariana wouldn't want me to shut myself out from the world and to retreat into the darkness. She had been a selfless creature.

Unlike the monster that had taken her life—our own humble brother.

My curiosity increased with each new arrival that came throughout the day, until at last the sky was darkening and a whole huddle of these cloaked figures—most of them men, though I was sure I'd identified at least once high-pitched cackle, which could belong to a woman—now filled the Hog's Head. Infuriated as I was that they seemed to merely be using the pub as a meeting place, rather than actually buying anything, I froze in my tracks as I'd prepared to march out there and demand they either leave or pay up.

A cold, snarling voice hushed the crowd. "Quiet, you fools. Don't you know who that man is?" he hissed, no doubt referring to me. "Aberforth." There was a silence that followed. "Aberforth _Dumbledore_," he clarified, prompting a few startled murmurs, though I couldn't make out anything intelligent.

"Do we kill him?" somebody asked in an eager whisper. I instinctively grabbed for my wand, and shuddered. How dare they force me to grapple for that devil stick—the source of all that I truly hated—and in the defence of my own life, no less.

The one who was clearly in charge dismissed the idea. "I shan't think that necessary. We have strict instructions to kill _one_ Dumbledore, and one Dumbledore only." He said it dramatically, like he was doing a voice-over for a play.

It was all I could do to suppress a gasp, clutching my wand even tighter in my hand until my knuckles turned white. Who were these people? Surely they did not intend to kill my brother—but what else could they mean? If not me, then only one Dumbledore remained to die, and he was locked up safely in Hogwarts. Surely those fools must have known they couldn't possibly stand a chance.

"_Your_ son is supposed to be taking care of that, Lucius," a female voice declared ruthlessly. "If he should fail then I say we kill as many as we can."

If it was true, that they were honestly plotting to take my brother's life, I felt powerless as I pressed my ear to the door—just a thin, peeling piece of wood that separated me from a room of callous murderers.

Pushing the door open just a crack, I could just make out the dark group, all clad in black. The one who addressed the others had his back to me, but the sleek blonde hair that trailed down his back was familiar to me. I had seen him at least once in this pub before, but his name escaped me. Lucius, was it? I was sure that's what the woman had said.

Even from that distance, I could see the grotesque symbol that was branded onto their forearms. Dark wizards, every single one of them. I could kill them right there as I stood. Or, at least, some of them. Whilst I possessed the element of surprise, I could easily kill a fair few of them, cast a Shield Charm to protect myself, and then apparate to safety. But I was not a murderer, especially not when magic was involved.

My fingers itched as I ran them over the solid wood of my wand. A simple flick, and I could end their lives. Instead, I ran. I could faintly pick out words as I retreated from my own pub—my own house!—but they meant nothing to me. _Vanishing cabinet, Draco, Knockturn Alley, Severus Snape..._

Wheezing as I went, verbally cursing the disheartening effects of having seen so many years, I made my way to the castle, unsure of what was driving me. Compassion? Fear?

Oh, it had been many years since I'd set foot on that winding path and made my way up to the great castle that loomed before me; yet, there I was, hurtling towards it with desperate purpose burned into my body, forcing me forwards. I knew precisely how to enter the castle, despite all the protective enchantments set on it—Albus had taught me, should there ever be an emergency—and I was sure he would forgive me for entering the school to warn him of his own death plan.

The corridors were unfamiliar, but my feet guided me, as though they had walked them a thousand times. I was drawn to the Astronomy Tower, though who knew for what reason I felt so inclined as to head there.

* * *

From within the shadows, I stared up at my older brother, so noble and heroic as he spared the boy who could not kill him—a sobbing, mess of a boy, so pathetically feeble. I felt disgusted, and I felt helpless. There was movement above and suddenly voices; nearly all of them I recognised from the group in the Hog's Head. They travelled fast, I thought in alarm. They must have known some other way to get in.

I regarded the dark-haired boy that stood only a few feet away from me, the unmistakable scar seared onto his forehead, frozen firmly in place by a spell I was sure Albus had cast to protect him. So humble, so self-sacrificial, I thought bitterly. Spare the boy, but not your own sister? My disgust deepened, yet just like this poor boy, I was frozen. Not due to magic, but paralysed by my own fear, with a Disillusionment Charm cast over myself to render me invisible to any of the others.

I wondered if Albus knew I was there—if he could somehow sense my presence. But as I fought back the bitter sting of tears, a different question swam in my mind: Could I save him?

Did I even want to?

I could kill some of the others, or even merely disarm them. I wasn't a fighter, but how could I let my own flesh and blood be brutally slaughtered before my own eyes? Family at least meant something to _me_, even if _he_ had not extended that affection to dear Ariana. I could sacrifice myself—the final action of an aged man living a life of sorrowful regret. I could be every bit a hero as my brother Albus always tried to be.

But I was not a hero; I was a coward. And that was the only thought in my mind as I watched, with breathless grief, as my brother fell to his death, crumpling before my eyes as I witnessed the last of my siblings have their life ended whilst I stood idly by.


	2. Before I Fell

_**Author's Note:** Round 2 of the Before I Fall Competition. I had to change one aspect, and that was Aberforth telling the Death Eater the pub was closed_

* * *

**Last Day 2**

When I awoke, my head was throbbing with the steady beating of the clock. I didn't remember returning to the Hog's Head, let alone making it all the way to my bed. Yet, there I was, lying peacefully in my striped pyjamas, just like any other ordinary morning. Except this morning was not ordinary, and I was certainly not peaceful. Not in the slightest.

The haunting details of what had passed last night were still etched into my mind, flashing up in horrifying images every time I closed my eyes, causing me unbearable physical discomfort. I didn't understand what had happened after that dreadful event. The last memory I had of last night was seeing my brother fall through the darkness, and simultaneously, I felt like my stomach had dropped to the floor and I was falling, too. I'd closed my eyes to lessen the nausea—the dizziness of falling but without really moving.

And now, I was there, opening my eyes for the first time since I'd witnessed my brother be brutally murdered. How had I returned? Who had helped me? Or perhaps I'd simply made my own way back. It was all a blur.

What had become of the Death Eaters? What had become of Albus? Had somebody retrieved his body? What happened to Hogwarts? Surely the Ministry would be in uproar about the tragedy. Had the Prophet gotten hold of the story already?

I had so many questions, but I realised the only way I was going to get some answers was to haul myself out of bed and venture out into the world. I did just that.

My muscles were weary as I clambered down the stairs that morning, my whole body aching. Age truly was taking its toll on me. Perhaps death would be a sweet, blessed release. After all, I had no remaining family members. I had no friends, no children, no significant other. My pub, my job—they were neither of them of any sentimental importance to me. There would be a lot of attention surrounding my brother's death; that much was obvious. He had been a hero of sorts, and his credibility was beyond any living wizard of that era. _Living_. The word taunted me.

"Good morning, Ariana," I greeted the portrait in my gruff voice, the same routine every morning.

She offered a polite smile, emphasising every gentle detail of her young face. Whatever the afterlife was like, I could only speculate, but mark my words, if Albus had been reunited with Ariana, he had better give her the apology she deserved. He had better sink down onto his creaky, old knees and plead for her forgiveness. That was the least he owed her.

I busied myself in the kitchen, trying to steady my trembling hands as I prepared a potion to soothe my aching head. I needed to think clearly. It was highly likely there would be a number of curious wizards and reporters and such, clambering into the pub to ask for my angle on the story. They'd want to know every single intimate detail of my brother's life, his childhood included. And they'd want my first-hand opinion on what had occurred the previous night.

_Well, I'm not giving them the bloody satisfaction_, I concluded. I needed time to clear my mind—to grieve—and they wouldn't deny me the basic human right to mourn the loss of your loved ones. Because, I realised, however I may have felt about Albus in the past and even up to his final moments, he was my brother, and I had loved him in my own way. I did not want him to die. Even if we never talked, never saw each other, just his remaining presence in the world, as my only living relative, meant a great deal to me. But now, I was alone.

So very alone.

I flicked the radio on manually. I would not—_could_ not—use my wand for such trivial things. It was thanks to magic that my loved ones were all dead. I was surprised, and then downright enraged that they never mentioned Albus' name. The death of Albus Dumbledore was _big_ news, and it was a dishonour to my brother to not even mention it in passing. He had been the greatest living wizard of this era, and they couldn't even give his passing the most simplest of acknowledgements?

_"Seventeenth of June, just gone eight twenty-two. Stay tuned for our live debate on dragons: Do we have the right to contain them or are they entitled to their freedom? You decide. Send us your messages. But first, here's Celestina Warbeck with her new single—"_

I was so shocked that I dropped the potion's vial to the floor where it promptly smashed, allowing its contents to seep into the cracks of the dusty, wooden floor. I clicked the volume up a few notches, certain I couldn't have heard correctly. But, to my displeasure, I was only met with the heightened wailing of Miss Warbeck.

_Seventeenth of June._ I was certain they'd said _seventeenth of June_, but that had been yesterday's date, I was sure of it. I hurried to the calendar hanging on the wall. I knew I was old, and my mind was fading, but surely I couldn't have forgotten the date? My surprise was deepened as I acknowledged the calendar. Normally, it wouldn't have troubled me so much, but yesterday was the only date I made an effort to remember, for the seventeenth was the date of Ariana's death—and now Albus' too, I realised with a shudder.

I knew I was not wrong. Yesterday had most definitely been the seventeenth; today was certainly the eighteenth. It was a simple error on the radio's behalf.

In my state, I knew there was no chance of opening the pub that day. Not only was I mourning the death of my two siblings, my mind was troubled, my head was aching—I was in no emotional or physical state to serve today.

I wasn't so much surprised, as I was angry, to find a customer already in the Hog's Head. I knew it would be one of them—one of those reporters trying to get the inside scoop on the latest story. I was enraged as I approached them, intent on informing them that they could damn well get out of my pub or I'd—

But, for the second time that day, I stopped in my tracks, taken aback by surprise. The lone man who was waiting in the Hog's Head wore a thick, black cloak—not unusual for travellers in my pub—with some kind of, what looked like an ink marking, trailing up his arm. I had seen this man before. I was certain it was the same one from yesterday morning. He had some nerve daring to come back there after being involved in my brother's murder! What reckless thoughts had possessed him to return, as casual as the day prior?

"What the hell makes you think you have the right to be here?" I demanded, thundering over to this anxious young man.

He very nearly leapt out of his skin, trembling from head to toe as I marched up to him, my wand raised high, despite my best efforts to never use magic. He took a step back, raising his hands in defence. "I'm just"—he hesitated—"waiting for a few... _acquaintances_."

"Like hell, you are! What game do you think you're playing, being here like this?"

He stared at me, dumbfounded. "This is a pub," he stated calmly. "I was under the impression that weary travellers were entitled to rest here, have a few beverages, wait for _acquaintances_."

"You think after yesterday I'd let either you or any of your snivelling acquaintances in my pub ever again?"

A mask of confusion crept over this stranger's face. "Believe me, this is the first and only time I ever intend to set foot in this pub. You must be mistaken, my good fellow, for I was certainly not here yesterday, nor have I ever been before now."

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Undetermined."

The very cheek of him! "Look," I tried to say in a reasonable voice. "I don't know what your game is—coming here this morning, considering everything that happened yesterday—and I'm going to ignore your idiocy and sheer rudeness if you leave my pub. Right. Now."

He blinked at me but made no effort to move.

"I'm warning you," I went on, trying not to lose my temper again. "Leave now, and I won't press charges or get you involved in any kind of legal action. You have my word, as long as you leave immediately."

He looked panicked now. "Look, I've no idea what you're on about, but I can't leave. I'm meeting very important people here for some very important business. We have strictly organised plans, and I can't fail..."

"I don't care. The pub's closed."

"No, it's—"

"The Hog's Head. Is. Closed."

Still, he made no effort to move.

"Listen," I tried again. "I don't know how involved you were with the plot against my brother, but I know that some of your _acquaintances_ were certainly more involved, and I'm not afraid to tell the Ministry everything I know if it comes down to it. I have nothing to fear—nothing to live for. You can torture me, or whatever it is you shady bastards get up to, but my pub is closed, and I will probably kill you if you don't leave right now. May Albus Dumbledore's memory haunt you," I added for good measure.

At Albus' name, the stranger froze, his eyes wide. "How much do you know?" he asked suspiciously.

"About what?"

"About the... plot."

"Stop talking in riddles. I neither know nor care. My brother is dead because of you people. Anything else you plan to do can't affect me as much as that."

"Albus Dumbledore is _dead_?" he repeated in horror.

I was not amused. "Is that supposed to be funny? Some kind of a joke? You know damn well that you killed him, that you all stormed into Hogwarts—Merlin knows how you managed that—and struck him down from the Astronomy tower. I was there, you fool!"

His reaction was deeply unsettling. He was wild-eyed and panicked, muttering something under his breath. "Who told you about the plan?" he demanded, suddenly vicious as he bore down on me with a snarling mouth.

"Nobody told me!" I yelled, not intimidated in the slightest. "I was _there_—in the tower! I saw it all with my own eyes."

"We plan to kill Albus Dumbledore _tonight_," he said in a whimpering voice. "I don't know who told you about the plot, but mark my words, if _he_ finds out, you won't live to see another day. You can't stop us. We will kill him, and you can't change that."

"You're a day late," I said gruffly. "He was killed yesterday—didn't anybody tell you? Wasn't _that_ the plan?" I asked a little sarcastically. This man was clearly troubled or deranged or some sort, getting his dates mixed up and his mind crossed. "Stop wasting my time, and leave, _now."_

This time, he did so obligingly, looking at me with an unreadable expression. I was too tired to deal with idiots such as this. I locked the door, securing it with magic (to my disgust), and made an effort to place the sign on the door that read 'CLOSED' in unmistakable bold letters.

They still came. All of them—the exact same lot that had arrived yesterday. They all came, but instead resorted to gathering _outside_ the pub, much to their anger—particularly the blond-haired Lucius Malfoy, and the deranged woman with a wild appearance. I simply couldn't understand what the repetition of their gathering was all about. My brother was dead. What were they planning now? Another murder? _My_ murder?

No, that was preposterous. It troubled me, though. Without the security of my lodgings, they seemed to be arguing and panicking about the fact that they were so exposed in the open sunlight. I managed to catch snippets of their conversation, just as before. _Vanishing cabinet, Draco, Knockturn Alley, Severus Snape..._

Something was amiss, and I fled to the only place I could think of—Hogwarts. Somebody could help me there, could fill me in on the details of what had happened. Perhaps I could even warn somebody about the lurking Death Eaters. Maybe I could even see Albus' body. The idea both horrified and intrigued me.

I found myself drawn to the tower, running my fingers over the battlements where he'd fallen to his death. So very tragic. I felt uneasy as I stood there, incomplete somehow, running the bizarre events of the past few days over in my head: the confusion when I'd awoken in my bed; the radio's mishap; the complete lack of any news reporter or journalists; the Death Eater's confusion; the gathering of the exact same group who had murdered Albus just the day before.

It didn't add up. And then, suddenly, I was struck by a horrible, shocking thought.

I'd had no knowledge of returning to my bed. The young Death Eater spoke of the plot as though it had not happened yet. _We plan to kill Albus Dumbledore tonight—t_hat's what he'd said. But Albus was already dead. I had watched him die.

Hadn't I?

My mind was racing. What if Albus was alive? What if yesterday had not happened—had been a universal blip or merely a dream? I could recall nothing after he'd fallen through the darkness, and bizarrely found myself in my own bed. Could it all really be possible? It had been a dream? Or, perhaps, a vision. A vision of events to come. They still planned to kill Albus Dumbledore, after all.

But this time, I knew it in advance. This time, I was ready for them.

* * *

Out in the open, I stared into the face of my brother's intended murderers, every bit as noble and heroic as he had always been throughout his life. There was a gentle wind blowing through my long, wispy hair. I felt at peace.

"This is it, Dumbledore," the mad woman hissed.

"You're earlier than I expected," I said, almost bored. Last night, or at least in my dream (if it had, in fact, been a dream), it had been far later into the evening when they'd struck my brother down.

"Your brother's pub was closed," she explained. "We couldn't risk being seen, so we entered Hogwarts via the vanishing cabinets, much earlier than planned. How would you know, anyway? We planned to ambush you. Heard you'd gone on some mission with Potter..."

The whereabouts of my brother were unknown to me. I, too, had heard rumours of him and the Potter boy embarking on some bizarre mission. I was just grateful Albus was as far from the castle as he was. He did not need to be there. Had he been there with me, in that moment, he would have stopped me; he would have willingly given his life to spare mine.

_Not_ _this time,_ I thought bravely.

"Alas, I am not," I said calmly. "As you can quite clearly see."

She hissed at me in response. _Charming._ "Any last words?"

"_You're_ going to kill me?" I asked with eyebrows raised. "I was under the impression that _that_ young man was supposed to make me meet my end, and when he can't do it, Severus Snape, instead." I pointed to the whimpering blond-haired boy, shaking uncontrollably behind her.

"Things change. Draco's pathetic. Snape's not here. Any objections? I'm sure the Dark Lord couldn't care less how you meet your end, or by whose hand."

I didn't doubt it. "Very well. You may kill me now."

I wondered how long it would take for the Polyjuice Potion to wear off after they killed me, and exposed my true identity. As far as they were concerned, I was Albus Dumbledore, and it was he they would kill. I hoped they'd flee triumphantly as soon as I'd fallen. I hoped Albus would not return for a sufficiently long time. Long enough to ensure he was safe. Safe and alive—that's all I wanted.

I would sacrifice myself—the final act of an aged man living a life of sorrowful regret. I would be every bit a hero as my brother Albus always tried to be. That was the only thought in my mind, alongside the joyful realisation that wherever I ended up, I would once more be reunited with Ariana, as I was blasted over the battlements, falling to my death in a final act of blissful, heroic, self-sacrifice.


	3. Before She Fell

_**Author's Note: **Round 3 of the Before I Fall Competition. This is the second day but through the eyes of Hermione Granger, who is, unfortunately, dead_

* * *

**Last Day 3**

I opened my eyes, feeling bizarrely weightless. My eyes were pointed upwards to the high ceiling, but the world was somehow different now. My vision wasn't blurred—quite the opposite, in fact. Colours seemed brighter, shapes more distinct. But, at the same time, it was like there was a veil draped over me—something separating me from the solidity of the real world.

It was then that I realised I was lying on my back, which struck me as odd. Surely I should have felt the solid floor beneath my body; I should have felt the cold stone pressed to my skin.

But I couldn't.

When I moved my hands over the surface of the floor, I gasped, yet no air seemed to leave my lungs. In fact, I was sure I couldn't even feel the beat of my heart in my chest or the ringing sound of blood in my ears. My hands felt as light as a feather, as though defying gravity, and no matter how much I ran them over the floor, I felt nothing. It felt as though I was simply running my hands through the air. It was impossible.

Dazed by my surroundings, I struggled to pull myself to my feet. I was stood on the ground but, once again, it was as though there was no solid thing beneath me—simply a barrier that separated me from descending into the Earth's crust.

I began to take in my surroundings. There had to be an explanation; there was _always_ an explanation. I was exactly where I had been—I was in the Room of Requirement—and, suddenly, there _he_ was, still fumbling away with the cabinet as though I had never been there, acting as though he had never struck me down. It appeared to me, quite apparently, that he had been unsuccessful. Yet he didn't seem perturbed at all.

"MALFOY!" I yelled with a snarl, marching up to him. He made no reaction. I expected him to at least swing around in confusion at the sound of my voice, considering he'd just tried to kill me...

"_MALFOY!_" I yelled again, louder this time, though I hadn't thought it possible. My voice echoed around inside my own head, but he ignored me. He didn't even flinch at the sound of my voice. How could he possibly be so calm about it all? What was he playing at?

I planted myself firmly between him and the cabinet so he had no choice but to look me in the eye and acknowledge my presence. But still, he remained ignorant of me, almost bored of the whole situation, as though attempted murders going wrong were the most casual thing in the world.

"This doesn't change anything, Malfoy," I snarled. "Like I said before—I know all about your little plan with the vanishing cabinets and the Death Eaters. And I'm telling you, once again, that you'll have to kill me before I let you get away with it. Dumbledore will _not_ die by your hand—or anybody else's!" I declared bravely. Draco had already tried to kill me once, but I was confident he wouldn't dare do it again.

He never so much as looked up. His eyes drifted over me, scrutinising the cabinet, and a smile of satisfaction spread out across his face. It was complete, but he knew I would stop him—that I would dismantle it if need be. His ignorance was beginning to infuriate me.

That was when Draco turned away from me, and the shadow of guilt flickered into his eyes. I followed his gaze, deeply confused by his behaviour, but found myself gasping, reeling in horror at what I saw. There was a body—_my_ body—lying, deathly still and cold, on the floor, right where I'd just heaved myself from. It didn't make sense; it wasn't possible. There I stood, living, _breathing_, yet there was my corpse, sprawled on the floor in front of my eyes.

It didn't take me long to put the pieces together. The weightlessness, the bizarre perception of the world, Draco ignoring me—he had succeeded in killing me. I was quite dead. Or, at least, my body was. My soul, if that's what I was now, was quite intact. I was a ghost?

But if I was a ghost then Malfoy would still be able to see and hear me, and by his attitude so far, I was certain he couldn't. I needed answers, and I needed them now.

Without a second glance at my body or Draco's awkward attempts to drag it away, I ran. I hurtled for the door, reaching for the handle, only to find myself fall straight through it. I continued to run through Hogwarts, learning more and more about the strange phenomenon I had become. I could travel through things horizontally but not vertically. Walls and doors were like air, but stairs and floors still supported me. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before, and I needed answers. There was only one person I could think of who might possibly have them.

Nobody spared me a second glance as I ran through the castle, which was when I was struck with the sudden realisation that perhaps they _couldn't_ see me. I skidded to an abrupt halt, panic coursing through me like the blood that should have been running through my veins. Draco couldn't see me; _they_ couldn't see me either. I went to grab a passing girl's arm, but my hand fell through as easily as it had done the door. There wasn't even a look in her eye that let me know she had felt any kind of presence near her.

If people couldn't see me then how would I get answers? How could I get help? If I was not a corpse, and I was not a ghost, then what was I? A memory?

And how long would I be living like this?

_Living_. The word taunted me.

If I wasn't dead, and the form I was currently in couldn't die, then I would be forced to live forever. I would outlive my friends, my family; I would watch them grow old and die; I would watch pain and suffering and never be able to help them or even let them know I was there. I would not be able to eat, sleep, _die_. I would surely go mad with anguish and mental suffering, but it would never end. _Never_.

Even as I thought about it, I couldn't cry. Whatever I was now wouldn't allow it. Crying was for the living, and whatever I was now, I was not alive.

I continued to Dumbledore's office anyhow. There was a chance—granted, it was slim—but there was still a chance that he could help me—that he would somehow be able to sense me and communicate with me. Dumbledore was, without a doubt, the most advanced and brilliant wizard of that era—perhaps even in all of history—and, if he could not help me then I didn't even want to think of what would become of me. If I could gulp then I would have.

I entered the office easily, no passwords necessary for me anymore. It was empty. "Professor Dumbledore," I called out, though I knew neither he nor anybody else would be able to hear me. I paced up and down, scanning every last corner and hidey-hole.

He wasn't there. I remembered now—he and Harry had left the school in search for a Horcrux. When would he be back? What state would he be in when he got back?

I knew I was panicking again, but no clear solution formed in my mind. It could be any moment now that Draco put his plan into action and let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. And I was the only one who knew his plan; I was the only one who could possibly save Dumbledore from death. But how could I, when I was no longer alive myself?

There had to be somebody who could help me. I turned on my heel, preparing to run back out of the office, but stopped in surprise. Dumbledore had just walked in!

Except, it wasn't Dumbledore; it was just somebody who looked remarkably like him. Besides the uncanny resemblance to the headmaster, the thing that struck me most about this stranger was the way he looked at me. _The way he looked at me_—as though he could _see_ me.

"Can you help me?" he grunted.

My mouth hung down in shock. "You can _see_ me?" I croaked in disbelief. "You can actually see me?" It was too unbelievable to be true. I had thought all hope was lost, but perhaps it was not.

He regarded me suspiciously, and I suddenly realised how insane I must sound to him. I wondered what I looked like to him. Was I pale and transparent like a ghost, or somehow faded from reality? Or was I as solid and defined as any living, breathing human?

"Of course, I can. What do you take me for?" he asked angrily.

I apologised quickly. He must think me to be mad. "Forgive me, sir, and I know this is going to sound completely ridiculous, but I'm... I'm pretty sure I'm dead." The last word caught in my throat.

The man raised a thick, bushy eyebrow. "Dead, you say? Well, you don't look very dead to me."

"My name is Hermione Granger," I declared confidently. "Only, about twenty minutes ago, a boy cast the Killing Curse at me, and I died. But somehow, I've carried on living... It's like I'm some sort of ghost or a memory or something," I desperately tried to explain. "But I _saw_ my body—my corpse. Whatever I am now, I'm not human—I'm not living. I can go through walls; People can't see me; I can't even breathe. You've been the first person capable of seeing me."

I thought he would laugh at me, or shout at me, or send for someone immediately—to cart me away to St. Mungo's so I could be locked up in the mental ward. But his dark eyes shined with compassion, with understanding.

"Miss Granger," he said carefully, "I think something very strange indeed is happening right now."

He explained the events of the last day to me; how he felt he was trapped in some kind of supernatural phenomenon, reliving the previous day again. "This boy that killed you," he asked, "why did he do it?"

"I knew about the plot," I said breathlessly, although, really, my breath was non-existent anyway. "The plot to kill Albus Dumbledore."

"Then it's real," than man who looked remarkably like Dumbledore declared. "It's happening." He told me in more detail about his life over the past twenty-four hours—that he was Aberforth, Dumbledore's brother—that he had watched him die and encountered the same group of Death Eaters that morning.

"Why us?" I asked, though I doubted he would know the answer. "Why are you reliving this day, and why am _I_ incapable of death? How is it that you can see me when nobody else can?"

Aberforth looked at me with a grim expression. "Whatever it is, the two of us are trapped. I'm doomed to live this day over and over again forever, and you're doomed to live forever, unable to ever die. Some kind of universal blip," he grunted disapprovingly. "I don't know how we fix it. I was hoping Albus would know something. But he's dead, isn't he?"

I shook my head. "You're reliving this day—Albus Dumbledore hasn't been killed yet. But you know when he returns, and you know what happens when he returns?"

Aberforth looked thoughtful for a while, trying to remember the details. "The Astronomy Tower—that's where he'll die. That's… where he'll be murdered. By the hand of Severus Snape."

"_Snape?"_ I repeated in horror, though really, I should have known all along.

"We have until the evening."

"Do we? Harry only just left—they could be gone for hours—but Draco just completed fixing the cabinet. They could enter Hogwarts at any moment. They might prepare a trap—an ambush."

"Well, that's not going to happen," Aberforth said with a fierce look in his eye. "I'm not going to stand by whilst my brother dies." He dropped his gaze sadly, and I felt overwhelming pity for him. He had already watched his brother die once—his last remaining family member. I wouldn't let him relive it again.

"You think we can save him?" I asked doubtfully. The Death Eaters were brutal, and big in number. What chance did we honestly stand? But still, I wanted to help him. The world could not be without Albus Dumbledore. Not yet, anyway.

"If there was some way," Aberforth said wistfully. "Some way for me to take his place."

Alarm rang through me. "Mr Dumbledore!" I exclaimed. "You're not seriously suggesting you take his place? They'll _kill_ you. You'll die!"

As soon as I said the words, I was overcome with jealousy. Jealousy that he could die and I could not. "How do you know you won't wake up tomorrow and relive it all again?"

He looked doubtful, and then determined. "I have to try."

I felt jealous again, and this time, it's because he was the only one I had been able to communicate with. When he was dead, I might never find another, and I would be forced to live out my eternity in suffering and solitude. "With all due respect, sir, I don't think the Death Eaters will mistake you for your brother. As similar as you look, it's too obvious. They won't be fooled."

"I know that," Aberforth said a little irritably. "But there has to be a way. Some kind of enchantment, maybe, that can bewitch me to look like him..."

My eyes widened. "I don't know about an enchantment, but there's always Polyjuice potion!" My eyes darted around the office, a plan already forming in my mind. "Here!" I yelled, examining his chair. I could see a thin, wiry hair, long and white. I tried to pick it up carefully, but my hand just fell straight through. I sighed loudly. Getting used to my situation was going to take a long time...

"You'll have to pick it up for me," I told him.

Aberforth did so willingly and examined the hair between his fingers, scrutinising every tiny detail. "You really think this will work?"

I shrugged. "Do you really think we have another choice?" I retaliated. "If you're willing to die for your brother then we have to act quickly. Who's to say how much time we have left?" It was grim, but it was true.

I began to realise how selfish I was compared to the selfless man with me. He was willing to die in his brother's place, and I was jealous because I would have to live out my eternity alone.

"Snape will have Polyjuice potion stored in his supply cupboard. I'll be able to go there unnoticed, but I can't get it myself. We'll have to work together."

"Good luck," Aberforth said grimly.

I offered him a weak smile. I wouldn't be the one making a huge sacrifice. I was nowhere near as brave as he was, and nowhere near as needing luck as him. "You too."

* * *

From behind Bellatrix Lestrange, invisible to the Death Eaters, I stared into the face of Aberforth Dumbledore, every bit as noble and heroic as his brother had always been throughout his life. There was a gentle wind blowing through his long, wispy hair. He looked at peace, and I was in awe of him. He was so brave, so selfless, and the world would never know.

I had told him I didn't know how long it would take the Polyjuice potion to wear off after they killed him, and exposed his true identity, but as far as they were concerned, he was Albus Dumbledore, and it was him that they would kill.

It calmed me to know that I had helped in what little way I could. I had helped to save Dumbledore's life, and I had helped Aberforth to become a hero, even if it was only known to him and me. Once he was gone, I would be alone again, struggling to come to terms with my bizarre situation. But that was alright; I would struggle through. And at least he would be happy.

I wondered what would happen to Aberforth in death. Perhaps, when he would fall, he would return as I had done. It seemed unlikely, but the thought comforted me. Or maybe one day, I would die too, once and for all, rather than remain stuck in that unbearable state of neither living nor dying. In the end, we all would fall—myself included.

It was a sacrifice I was willing to make. That was what Aberforth wanted, and I watched with fearless respect as he was blasted over the battlements, falling to his death in a final act of blissful, heroic, self-sacrifice.


End file.
